


…The Ones to Watch Out For

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-23
Updated: 2007-12-23
Packaged: 2019-03-14 13:23:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13590951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: There is no plot to speak of, and therefore, no summary, except maybe to say thatheis a cunning linguist, andshe….





	…The Ones to Watch Out For

**Author's Note:**

> Not strictly holiday-themed. I suppose you _could_ pretend it's Christmas morning. ;)
> 
> Thank you to [](http://paper-jam11.livejournal.com/profile)[**paper_jam11**](http://paper-jam11.livejournal.com/) for the inspiration surrounding the navel. Mmmm.
> 
> Disclaimer: There are no names involved, so technically, no disclaimer is required. However, you and I both know who these people are; therefore: not mine.

He's lying in bed, dozing lazily, knows it's time to get up and start the day but is disinclined to move, especially since he knows he's being watched. He feels her fingers riding along the edge of the sheet that's folded over his chest, mentally calculates where her arm, shoulder, neck and face are, particularly where her lips are. In a flash he turns over and his calculations are entirely incorrect because it's not her mouth at all he finds; it's the soft skin of her stomach.

He doesn't let that stop him.

She squeals and giggles as he takes her hips in his hands, then wraps an arm around the small of her back. As his mouth finds her navel, as he dips his tongue into it then grazes his teeth on the skin of her abdomen, she stops giggling altogether and instead says, "Ohhh."

Clearly this meets with her approval.

He continues moving downward, turning her so she's beneath him, running his hands down her thighs and under her bottom as she raises her knees to either side of him. He feels the soft thatch of fine hair at his chin when she says, "No, wait. Stop."

He lifts his head, meets her gaze. She props herself up on her elbows, looks like she might be about to suggest something a little more traditional and to at least allow her to brush her teeth, but instead she sits up fully with a devilish smirk, beckoning him closer with a single finger. He slips his knee up under himself then pushes forward to kiss her on his original target: her mouth. She again breaks away, but is still smiling.

"Lay down," she says.

He furrows his brows.

"On your back. Lay down."

He knows that sometimes she likes to be on top, and he guesses this is one of those times. It's just fine by him; he's game for just about anything that involves making her come. He grins and backs off of her, taking his original position on the bed, his head on his pillow, to her left as she prefers. He waits for her to straddle him; when she does, though, she's facing in completely the wrong direction, directly over his shoulders.

He realises he had also miscalculated what she was in the mood for.

He runs his fingers up her quads, which go taut as she leans forward to place a kiss on his own lower abdomen. He feels her raking her fingernails along his inner thighs, then her soft, sweet lips on the very tip of him as she arches up her backside.

Moaning, he takes hold of her hips, pulls her close to him, then parting her with his thumbs he dips his mouth forward into her, causing her to moan too. He feels her fingers stroking him, her lips encircling him, taking him in her mouth, caressing him with her tongue, just as he flutters his own tongue back and forth against that pearl of nerves.

He bucks up into her reflexively even as he firmly keeps his hold on her rear, determined to not even breathe if he doesn't have to. He matches her rocking motions relentlessly and he can feel the vibrations of her vocalisations directly down his length, just as he's sure she can feel his throaty sounds penetrating into her as he drives his tongue firmly forward against her then into her.

As he surges forward, as she rocks back with ever louder utterances, he remembers the thing he dislikes most about this: how quickly it tends to be over, because he's really damned close to coming already, what with the magnificent things she was doing to him and that lingual magic he loved working on her. He's right on the cusp, but feels the old hesitation take over and makes a sound somewhere between a growl and a whimper.

She doesn't need to ask. She knows he's not used a woman who doesn't mind going the distance. Instead she simply encourages his release by drawing her mouth tighter around him, moving up and down, faster and faster. His fingers press urgently into her, trying to bring her as closely as possible to him, so he can take that pearl ever so gently with his teeth.

With the strength of the gasp she makes, the way she clenches her inner thighs, the firm grasp of her hands on his legs, he guesses this combination does as much for her as it does for him. He bucks up one more time as his climax hits him, and though he can't help throwing his head back into the pillow to cry out, she doesn't break away until she's sure he's through, then leans forward, rolls onto her side of the bed beside him, still panting from her efforts. He's pretty winded too. He reaches out his right hand and covers her calf with it, pats it lovingly.

When he opens his eyes again, he's alone on the bed, realises he must have dozed off. He has no concept of how long he's been sleeping, but it must have been long enough, because while he still feels relaxed and happy, he is no longer suffering from post-coital, oxygen-deprived muzzy-headedness. He glances to the clock. At least it's still before noon. He hears the shower running, so he gets to his feet and pads to the bathroom.

He pulls the curtain aside and she's got her fingers lathering shampoo into her hair, eyes squeezed closed, suds running down her face. She turns quickly and nearly slips; he grabs her arm to steady her, his fingers slipping on her wet skin. "It's just me," he says.

"Oh, you gave me a start," she says as she sputters out water.

He chuckles as he climbs in beside her, closing the curtain behind him. "Sorry. Wasn't likely to be anyone _but_ me, though."

She stands beneath the stream of water, rinsing out the shampoo from her hair, wiping the water from her eyes then opening them to look at him. She's smirking. "Well, I don't know. You might have been a mad killer or something. They always say it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for."

He erupts with a laugh. She's always surprising him.

She grabs his hips to steady herself as she trades places with him under the tap. He gets under the hot water, closes his eyes as it runs over his face, plasters his hair down to his head. He squeezes some shampoo into his hand and it isn't until he's working it into his hair that it occurs to him that it smells like vanilla—which is, he supposes, better than lilacs or roses. As he rinses the last of the shampoo out he feels her hands sweeping up over his stomach. He leans forward out of the stream, opening his eyes to look at her again. He's sure he has a stupid grin on his face.

"That's a very cute look for you, hair all in your eyes," she says.

"While I'm glad you approve, my hair is hardly long enough to be in my eyes."

"It looks like it's trying really hard, though," she said decidedly, even though he can feel the ends curling up against his forehead as she says it. She reaches up and fingers a wet wave of his hair, then strokes his cheek. Steam billows around them as they look into one another's eyes.

His hands take her hips and he pulls her close, then leans to give her a kiss as the water rushes over the both of them.

"That was very good, earlier," she says in a low tone as his hands push her freshly-shampooed locks back behind her shoulders, then slide down her arms.

"I quite agree." His hands roam down over her bottom. "Have you washed up yet?" he asks close to her ear.

"Not yet."

He palms the soap, lathers it up between his hands, then, sliding one hand around her waist again, he reaches to wash her, carefully soaping up her breasts, her stomach, then moves down gingerly between her legs.

"They were quite right," she says throatily.

"What do you mean?" he queries. 

"It _is_ the quiet ones you have to watch out for," she murmurs.

_The end._


End file.
